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Lessons from a Storm 

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One morning last week, I sat on the balcony reading my Bible and watching a storm brew over the ocean. The sky quickly turned from the coral pink of sunrise to a dark, muddy gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance, still faint like the sound of a far off airplane taking flight. The sound got closer and closer until I could feel the reverberations in my bones. Suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed, like a zipper closing the chasm between sky and sea. And then another and another until it looked like a show from Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I hurried in to grab my camera wanting to capture the majesty of what I was seeing. I played with my settings and tried to anticipate where the next bolt would come from, but I couldn’t seem to capture on my tiny camera screen the awe of what was before me. I’m sure a more skilled photographer would know how to tinker with the settings and get something stunning, but in the end it would still fall short of the real thing. So, I put my camera down on the table beside me and just watched. 

It’s raining again today, and on my way home from the grocery store I remembered that stormy morning on the beach and thought about how this big God cares so deeply about the smallest things. I think that’s one of the purposes of nature, to show us tiny glimpses of the glory of God. Just like Moses had to be hidden in the cleft, we can’t see His face right now because His glory would destroy our marred selves. But when I think about moments like that stormy morning on the beach, I can’t help but think I got to see a veiled glimpse of His glory. But to think that a God who governs the ocean’s tide and the lightning’s bolt cares enough to speak to me, to love me, to reveal Himself to me–wow.

I don’t know about you, but my finite mind struggles with His infinite being. I find myself wanting to put up boxes around things, around God. I think maybe it’s a control technique–if I can understand it, I can control it. But if I could fully understand God, wouldn’t He cease to be God? Our boxes get shattered. The enemy wages war, and we believe his lie over and over again, and we struggle to understand. I don’t have answers. But one thing I know–every morning when I come to my wooden table and crack open my Bible, every morning when I bring my weary brain that’s struggling to understand and look to His perfect truth, every morning when I ask God to speak to me, I marvel that the same God who slices the sky with a lightning bolt pierces my heart with the light of His Word. And that is nothing short of amazing. 

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  1. Pingback: {Dear Daughter} About little things | Elissa Roberts

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